


Wall to Wall

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3655326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s over and she’s fine. She’s moved on with her life.  (Post-"Kill the Moon")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wall to Wall

**Author's Note:**

> For anonymous, who prompted: How the hell did they go from the KtM ending to MoTOE (who broke first and how?)

Tell him when you’re calm, Danny had said. He’d been right, so she did. Waited until she could think about what had happened without wanting to scream or cry or punch a hole in the wall. Forty-eight hours, give or take, and she called him, left a carefully-composed voicemail. She’s finished now, officially finished. It’s over and she’s fine. She’s moved on with her life.

Except she finds a moon rock at the bottom of her laundry basket and it all comes rushing back. False alarm with the calm thing, apparently. It happens to everyone. Happens to her more than she’d like to admit. She has something uncomfortably close to a breakdown sitting on top of a pile of dirty socks.

Danny asks her if she wants to talk - she doesn’t. Asks her if she wants to go hardcore self-indulgent snuggle mode, blankets and takeaway and binge-watching bad TV - no, she’s fine.

"All I want is you," she says. It’s true, mostly.

He sighs, and smiles sadly, and tucks a stray curl of hair behind her ear, and then puts his arms around her. Just holds her, steady and strong and warm as he ever is.

She falls asleep that night with an Ambien, clutching fistfuls of the bedsheets.

The next day she’s still mad, but the blinding rage has gone. She’s stopped slamming doors. She snaps a few times, at Danny, her students, people failing to queue properly in the shop, herself. She burns the toast, forgets to turn the kettle on, snags a run in her stockings. Everything is more difficult than it ought to be. Everything’s off. She falls asleep with a glass of wine, which has started to go a bit vinegary, and a marathon of _Planet Earth_.

The day after that, she doesn’t give herself space to think about much of anything at all. Throws herself into work, cleans her apartment, makes an elaborate dinner for herself and Danny. She takes him to bed afterwards, an unusually regimented and slow-moving affair. She wants it to last forever, wants to be held by him forever, wants there to be nothing in the universe but this. She stays awake the whole night, watching him sleep.

Eventually life goes back to normal. She reminds herself that ‘normal’ isn’t a bad word, sometimes out loud. Little pep talks to herself. A week passes, it’s Wednesday again. She catches herself listening for the whine of the TARDIS, that anticipatory twinge, a bounce in her step. She realizes she’s waiting for him. But that’s over, isn’t it. And it’s a good thing that it is.

It’s over but her body didn’t get the memo: she’s got more energy than she knows what to do with. She can’t sit still, can’t concentrate. Danny, impossibly patient, just offers to go running with her. They suit up, head out, to nowhere in particular. Apartment key laced into her shoe. She runs until her legs are shaking and her lungs are burning, and keeps running. Danny trying and failing to slow her down, steady her pace. She runs until she feels like she’s going to throw up and then she runs until she does throw up, into a hedge on someone’s well-manicured front lawn.

Back home, showered and poking listlessly at a plate of pasta. Jarred sauce, pans in the sink, radio playing the football match.

"I won’t force you to talk," Danny says. He’s looking at her earnestly, kindly. "But it’s pretty obvious there’s more going on here than just falling out with your, your - intergalactic chauffeur. I hate seeing you like this, Clara. Your happiness means the world to me, and you’re miserable, and I want to help you but I can’t - you won’t let me."

"You are helping," she insists. "Of course you are. And I’m fine. Just a little out of sorts. Everyone feels like that now and then. It’s nothing to worry about, I promise."

"I cant believe I’m about to say this." He puts his fork down carefully on the edge of his plate. "You should call him. Meet up. Try and work things out."

"Some things can’t just be ‘worked out’," she says distantly. "Some things can’t be fixed."

 

But the next morning, tea forgotten and rapidly cooling, she finds herself wondering if she’s owed more than what she got. Closure, she deserves closure. So she calls the Doctor. The TARDIS phone, a number she’d get around to deleting one of these days. It’s ringing, and ringing, and still ringing, and if he doesn’t pick up she’s not sure if she’ll bother to try again.

A click, the crackle of a trans-temporal, trans-galactic connection. “Ahoy-hoy.”

"Hey." She bites her lip. Maybe she had missed him, just a bit.

"Clara?"

She looks at the list she’d made, of talking points and personal reassurances. None of it quite makes sense anymore. “Yeah. So.”

"I’m sorry," he says. Syllables rushing together, _'msorry_ , like he’s embarrassed at the fact that those words are coming out of his mouth.

"For what?" Teacher-voice, Socratic method. Tell me where and how exactly you messed up.

"For - you know. Clara. Please, just-"

"I’m not gonna accept an apology if you don’t get what you’re apologizing for."

There’s a pause. “I was a patronizing arse,” he says finally.

"That’s part of it, yeah. What else?" She wants to drag it out of him. She wants to claw it out.

"Clara - "

” _What else._ ”

"I abandoned you."

The apartment feels too small. The whole world feels too small. A clock somewhere ticking loudly. Workbooks stacked neatly on the coffee table. Decorative throw pillows, shopping lists, to-do lists, calendar with appointments circled. The line is silent, staticky. “What else,” she whispers.

"I, um. I treated you like a pawn. I made you feel like I thought you weren’t important, weren’t - what’s the word? Special. And you are special, Clara. More than you know. You’re…well." He clears his throat. "I frightened you and hurt you and it was wrong, I was wrong, and I am truly sorry for that."

That must have been hard to say. She imagines him running his hands through his hair, ducking his head like a bashful little boy. She imagines herself back with him, traveling again, and it makes her heart hurt, just a bit. More than a bit. But she’s made her choice.

A voice in her head saying _so what’s the harm in seeing him one last time?_ “One more trip,” she blurts out. “We go somewhere, your pick. We tie up the loose ends. End on a good note, you know?”

"An amicable separation."

"Yeah. Key word being ‘separation’, don’t think I’m about to run off with you again. But. Amicable, absolutely. Til next Wednesday, then." She hangs up before she can change her mind.

If she’s looking forward to it, that’s only because she wants to get it done, wants to get the adventuring out of her system. She’ll make some good memories to keep with her. It’ll be over, like a particularly exhausting and exhilarating holiday is over. Not burnt-bridges over. Maybe she’ll have the Doctor around for tea, holiday dinners; no reason to not keep in touch. She’ll move on with her life. There’s nothing wrong with leading a normal life. She’ll be fine.


End file.
